I don’t trim my nails. I haven’t even filed them recently. I’m sitting here, biting into the corners of my fingernails and slowly tearing them apart. I don’t know why I can’t stop; it’s compulsive and disgusting. I make sure some white is left so I still have hands like a normal, non-anxiety-ridden human being, but they keep getting shorter and shorter as the days pass.
No, I don’t think I’m depressed. Am I? Depression is the lack of being able to feel right? Then no, I’m not depressed. I feel too much actually. I can’t stop being sad. I don’t know how else to explain it other than by using that pathetic little sentence.
I can’t describe it further. I try to talk to my best friend about it, and she feels sorry…sympathetic even. She wishes she could come and visit with me a while if only to fill the void. But it’s not a void. It’s not nothingness I feel.
It’s an ocean. Calm low tides at